


safe like spring time

by quidhitch



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America Sam Wilson, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), brief mention of samsteve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidhitch/pseuds/quidhitch
Summary: “I already told you it looks good. What more is there?”“I don’t know, man, you’re gonna live here. I just wish I knew a little bit more about how that’s sitting with you.”Sam knows Bucky feels fine. What Sam’s probably actually after is how he feels about the fact neither of them have anywhere else to go, not with Natasha dead and Steve wrinkly. Therapists. Even the good ones, always so circular.“I like the terrace,” Bucky offers, mostly to appease him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 287





	safe like spring time

**Author's Note:**

> so.........how about that quarantine huh
> 
> disclaimer that i started this fic like LITERALLY a year ago and i just got around to attempting to finish it. hopefully gonna be cleaning up and posting a lot of WIPS over the next couple months. 
> 
> those of you following my blog know that my university campus closed and i'm going back to my hometown to live with my parents for.........the foreseeable future. i feel that in order to not suffocate my dad with a pillow i really need to reconnect w my virtual homies... so here i am...attempting to buy ur love w fic...

They buy an apartment together in Harlem. It has heated floors, a small terrace, and a fully operational washer/dryer. Sam enthusiastically explains how desirable these things are, trying to evoke a more interested reaction out of Bucky than a measured nod. 

Bucky hasn’t had his own place since Vienna. Pretty much the only thing he was going for then was ‘unfindable’, and he failed even at that, so he doesn’t really understand why his input would be valuable.

“You are giving me nothing to work with,” Sam says, taking a pointed sip of his Very Berry smoothie. (Bucky has noticed that he loves anything with berries, even if he later complains about the seeds getting stuck in his tooth gap. It’s cute.)

“I already told you it looks good. What more is there?”

“I don’t know, man, you’re gonna _live_ here. I just wish I knew a little bit more about how that’s sitting with you.”

Sam knows Bucky feels fine. What Sam’s probably actually after is how he feels about the fact neither of them have anywhere else to go, not with Natasha dead and Steve wrinkly. Therapists. Even the good ones, always so circular.

“I like the terrace,” Bucky offers, mostly to appease him.

Sam levels a look over the top of his sunglasses, like he knows exactly what Bucky’s doing. It’s unclear whether he actually does - Sam pretends to know everything but only really knows _most_ things. 70% of things.

“We should have a planter out there.” Bucky nods. “I want to grow stuff.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Mint, maybe. Basil.”

“Alright.” Sam says, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket and tapping at the screen. “Putting it on the list.”

They spend an entire Saturday in the home improvement section of Target, and eventually leave with: a planter, throw pillows, new kitchenware, a pair of soft red curtains, and a picture frame for the only photo they have of Nat, Steve, Bucky, and Sam all together. Sam insists that Bucky picks out bed sheets and at least one decorative item for his room. Bucky doesn’t mind -- likes it, actually. It makes him feel like he’s part of something, after having spent so long in other people’s homes. 

Their first night after moving in, Bucky lays out newspapers on the kitchen floor and uses Steve’s old paints to sketch out an abstract pattern of swirls and stars on the planter. 

“That’s pretty good,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder. He’s cradling a bowl of blueberries and wearing a pair of low-hanging sweats with worn out elastic. Bucky’s cheeks feel strangely warm. 

“Thanks,” he says shortly, going back to his work.

* * *

Bucky laces his combat boots with purple string.

It’s silly, it’s not regulation, and it always makes Maria Hill scowl at him, but he still does it. Mostly because it’s the kind of thing Hydra would never let him get away with, somewhat because he just likes the color. Once he gets set up with a proper paycheck and steady income, he buys laces in red, lime green, and polka dot, too. Whenever he feels his chest tighten and his hands start to quiver, he looks down at his boots.

I belong to me. I am no one else’s but mine.

Outside of the occasional raised eyebrow, nobody ever commented on it. People at SHIELD didn’t tend to make small talk with Bucky, much preferring to let him remain the silent, mysterious, perpetually brooding Winter Soldier.

That’s mostly okay with Bucky, because people are loud and smelly and do lots of stressful things, but sometimes he’d prefer that the conversation in the break room didn’t come to a grinding, obvious halt every time he tried to refill his coffee.

The only person at work who doesn’t regard Bucky like he’s some kind of wild animal — the brightest, warmest part of Bucky’s entire life, really — is Sam. Even when Sam’s poking fun at him, being obstinate for no reason other than to make Bucky’s eye twitch, he is perfectly, unequivocally warm. Just being in his proximity soothes Bucky’s nerves, and when Sam smiles at him, every fucked up thing in the world seems to get just a little less fucked up.

Bucky guesses this means he’s in love.

It’s fine. He’s handling the situation.

“Hey, Barnes,” Sam puts his hand on Bucky’s arm after a training exercise. Bucky narrowly resists the urge to tackle him to the carpet and bury his face in Sam’s neck. 

“What’s up?” Bucky asks, hoping to god his voice sounds normal.

“Can you hang back for a minute? Got something for you.”

Bucky’s heart clenches briefly, a burst of excitement fluttering through his chest like confetti.

“I didn’t wanna give it to you in front of everyone, ‘cause I dunno how you feel about birthdays.” Sam reaches into his gym back and pulls out a pair of Rainbow shoelaces, still in their little plastic covering. He offers them to Bucky, smiling in that way that shows off his achingly perfect tooth gap. “Happy one hundredth, you old geezer. I was gonna spring for the matching walker but I figured I oughta leave something for Christmas.”

Bucky almost reaches for the shoelaces with his mechanical fingers, but changes his mind at the last second. It’s absolutely worth it for the way their hands brush together as they pull away, the warmth of Sam’s skin like a supersoldier tranq that makes him dizzy.

“This is—“ Bucky’s breath catches in his throat, and he turns the shoelaces over in his hand. He focuses on not doing something completely mortifying, like letting his eyes get misty. “This is perfect. Thanks, Wilson.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, but he’s grinning as he shoves Bucky’s shoulder playfully. “Just tryna make sure you don’t trip in the field and embarrass me. 

It takes Bucky a minute to find his voice. “See you’re really taking that whole Captain America legacy schtick seriously.”

Sam rolls his eyes and bumps their shoulders together. They fall into step on their way to the lockers.

“You’re a little asshole, you know that? Happy birthday.”

Bucky runs his index finger along the grain of the shoelace. “Yeah. Thanks.”

* * *

Sam has to get fitted for a new patriotic getup. Steve’s old one -- besides being associated with Nomad-- is a little outdated technology-wise. Bucky thinks it’s a good thing, might help Sam look a little less guilty for exerting ownership over something that was given to him.

Once again, he is called in for input and where he doesn’t think his opinion ought to hold any merit. Bucky has sneered at every Captain America get up since Steve started the gig, and besides, he fully believes that Sam could wear the hell out of a cardboard box if someone asked him to.

“I don’t know about this one,” Sam appraises his own reflection skeptically. “Isn’t all the white going to--- get very obviously bloodstained? Make people nervous?”

Bucky glances over from where he’s lying on the floor, half-heartedly flipping through mission de-briefs.

“Do your job right and there won’t be that much blood, Wilson.”

“I’m firing you,” Sam deadpans. He looks towards the intern who’s been assigned to bring Sam the suits and talk through their features. “I can do that, right? I have the authority to fire him?”

The intern looks skittishly between them. “I’m… not entirely sure, sir.”

“He’s fucking with you,” Bucky says, “he knows he’s never getting rid of me.”

“That’s right, Barnes is my eternal punishment. I must’ve been a real piece of work in some past life.”

“You’re a real piece of work in this life.”

Sam rolls his eyes at Bucky but he’s smiling a little as he struggles out of the boots, hopping back behind the privacy barrier set-up in the corner of the lab. 

“I don’t know,” he says. Bucky tries very hard not to watch the movement of his shadow against the fabric of the curtain. He mostly fails. “I hate to be this picky, but none of these are working. Also they don’t--”

A slight crashing noise, from within barrier.

“--fit right. They’re _really_ tight.”

The intern shifts in place and glances at the clipboard in his arm, reading something on the page and swallowing.

Curiosity nudges Bucky off the floor by degrees, and he approaches soundlessly, placing his heels down first and rolling his feet slowly to the ground. He glances at the clipboard over the intern’s shoulder.

“Highlight gluteal region?” he reads, frowning.

The intern lets out a startled noise, and Bucky narrowly dodges his flailing arm.

Sam, drawn out by the commotion, pulls the privacy curtain back and gives Bucky his best ‘have you been causing problems?’ frown. 

“Sam,” Bucky says, mouth pressed into as small of a smile as he can muster. “SHIELD’s very interested in your assets.”

“Excuse me?”

Bucky plucks the clipboard from the intern’s grip with little resistance and tosses it to Sam, who catches it deftly and frowns down at the page. 

“Is this for real?” he asks, brow creased incredulously. “‘Beard preferred?’ Who focus group-ed this, and did they do it with Steve’s face or mine?”

“The aesthetic features are obviously secondary to the function,” the intern prattles nervously, smoothing sweaty palms on his khakis. Bucky tries not to smirk, Sam’s been getting on his case about smirking, lately. “But Captain America is a public figure who gets in a lot of very public fights, and Captain Rogers was occasionally amenable to--”

Sam snorts. “Steve was amenable highlighting his gluteal region?”

“Sometimes," the intern hedges, looking increasingly less sure of himself.

Sam levels a considerably sterner gaze at the intern, and it’s teeming with the classical Captain America Guilt-Tripping™ of so many years past. Bucky doesn’t know why he’s so nervous about taking on the role, he’s got the most important part down.

“Looser around the butt or I’m not trying on anymore costumes.”

“That’s one for Twitter,” Bucky mumbles. 

“Will do, sir,” the intern assures, blushing wildly. “My apologies, sir.”

* * *

They go on assignment to Florida. 

Sam calls it a ‘colorful, lawless swamp’ during their SHIELD briefing, which must be a reference to something because everyone else in the room laughs when he says it.

Bucky kind of likes Florida. The plastic pink flamingos everyone has on their lawn are cute. They’ve seen a couple wild alligators, too, which is cool. And the sun is nice even if it’s far too hot to be wearing as much tac gear as they are. They’ve both faced worse than a little sweat. 

Sam has considerably more hostile opinions about all of these things. Sam, Bucky discovers very quickly, hates Florida.

“Fuck,” Sam says, coming to a jerky halt in front of a particularly viscous looking expanse of mud. “I could just fly over it?”

“And give away our position to everyone in a fifty mile radius?”

Sam scowls. 

Bucky’s shoes -- thick, heavy duty combat boots -- are well suited to the terrain, easily extracted from the wet ground as he walks. Sam’s are smaller in the name of aerodynamism, and if he takes another step he’ll be submerged to the ankle.

“Alright, Wilson,” Bucky says, unstrapping some of the tac gear from around his shoulders. “Hop on.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“How else are you gonna get over?”

“I am not riding on your back,” Sam says, though he looks increasingly unsure of this declaration as he continues to survey the land around him.

“Well, by all means,” Bucky says, folding his arms over his chest. “Continue to hold up the mission as you problem solve.”

He must not be doing a very good job of hiding his smirk, because Sam is glaring at him like he’s trying to burn holes through Bucky’s head.

Sam relents after another thirty seconds of complaining. Bucky stands in front of him patiently as Sam grips at his shoulders, hops on and wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist. He grunts a little at the sudden weight - the wing pack is _heavy_ \- and carefully curves his palms under Sam’s thighs. 

“Geez, Wilson, you on an all rock diet or something?”

“Shut up, Bucky.”

“No, no, it’s good. Good to see you putting on a little muscle.”

“Shut _up_ , Bucky.”

Bucky shuts up and starts trudging through the mud. 

It’s kind of nice. Sam stops complaining so much about the heat, just relaxes into Bucky’s back. For a second Bucky doesn’t know why he feels so affected by that, but then he realizes that most people, whether they realize it or not, are still kind of stiff around him, either because they’ve heard the stories about the Winter Soldier or because they think it best to treat him with kid gloves “after everything he’s been through”. 

There have only ever been three exceptions to the pattern: Natasha Romanoff, Princess Shuri, and Sam Wilson. 

After a while, Sam eventually rests his chin on top of Bucky’s head. Bucky doesn’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. He adjusts his grip on Sam’s thighs, assesses the blooming feeling in the pit of his stomach, and thinks ‘oh no’. 

* * *

Sam doesn’t use the shield. 

It lies around the apartment for months. Bucky starts using it to prop open the door when he’s watering plants on the terrace. It’s a decent footstool when one of them needs to reach something on top of the fridge. It spends a couple months lying face down on the kitchen counter, and they put things they don’t want to deal with inside it, like weird memos from SHIELD, bills they don’t feel like paying, endless Victoria’s Secret catalogues addressed to a ‘Clint Farton’. 

(“We’re not giving any more people this address,” Sam says, frowning.

“I suggested that weeks ago.”)

Anyways, Bucky knows that the shield has come to emblematize some of Sam’s unresolved feelings about Steve, and he’s frankly been afraid to touch that with a ten foot pole. If this had been before their lives got turned upside down, he’d have called Natasha Romanoff and she’d have taken Sam to have some soul-searching talk at the shooting range, and then he’d come home smiling, back to being the perfect picture of mental health.

Not an option anymore, for obvious reasons. 

“Oh my god,” Peter Parker squeaks, jerking his hand away from the terrace door and letting the shield clatter dangerously close to the rail. “Is that-- that’s not the real thing, is it?”

Peter is, unfortunately, one of the people who made the cut before Sam stopped handing out their address. 

“It’s the real thing,” Bucky says calmly, nudging the shield back inside with his toe, then going back to pulling the dead leaves off his mint plant. 

Sam doesn’t even look over from where he’s doing push-ups in the living room. 

“Are you serious?” Peter asks, “You just keep it… lying around like that?”

“We do.”

“Isn’t that disrespectful, or something?”

“Or something,” Bucky agrees. 

He glances over to Sam, to see if he’s reacted at all. His push-ups seem to be getting a little faster, breath punching out of him a hair more aggressively. 

Peter is, unfortunately, too clueless to notice. 

“He doesn’t use it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It clashes with his eyes.”

“Fuck you, Barnes,” Sam calls from inside. He rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling with a completely unreadable expression, which isn’t right, because Sam’s expression is never, ever unreadable. 

Bucky turns back to Peter. He knows his face is pinched in slight worry, but he doesn’t bother smoothing it over, hoping Peter will take the hint and talk about literally anything else. 

“You’re here because you wanted to show us something,” he reminds.

“Oh, yeah!” Peter’s expression brightens and he fumbles around his pockets for a moment, producing a flashdrive. He starts rambling about an arms shipment and somebody named ‘Fish’. 

Over his shoulder, Sam is still lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

Bucky frowns. 

* * *

They have a standing brunch date with Steve - every two weeks, Sunday morning, a little café near Steve’s place in Brooklyn with incredible waffles and cute waitresses. 

On those mornings, Sam wakes up a whole hour early and goes for a run that leaves him so tired he has to take the elevator back up. Then he takes a shower, and doesn’t listen to music or sing like he usually does. Then he sits down at the kitchen counter and stares at his phone instead of riding Bucky for his caffeine consumption. 

Bucky wants to say something comforting, but he knows he’d probably fuck it up and manage to make Sam feel even worse. He eyes the clock on the microwave, tongue thick and awkward in his mouth.

“Should probably leave in the next half hour,” he says quietly, surveying Sam’s reaction. “Else we’re gonna be late.”

Sam looks up from the same news article he’s been staring at and clearly not reading for the past fifteen minutes.

“Right, yeah,” he says, offering a dim flicker of a smile that’s somehow more painful than if he’d frowned.

Bucky gets a little angry. It’s surprising, because it’s different from the constant current of white rage he taps into for missions, different from the frustration of not remembering. This is something that goes much deeper, one of those rare sensations that makes him feel strangely and profoundly human in a way he wasn’t for a while.

He shoves it down until later, when they’re all seated on hipster-esque iron chairs around an outdoor table, a plate of waffles stacked a foot high between them. Sam is angled towards the sun, smiling and laughing, because he loves Steve so much, even when it doesn’t feel like they really know him, anymore.

Sam excuses himself to the restroom for a minute, places a hand on Steve’s forearm as he goes, a light, grounding touch, probably because the last time they left him alone for five minutes he came back looking like the crypt-keeper.

Bucky waits until Sam is out of earshot before he sets down his fork and knife, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at Steve with an expression he knows he’ll recognize. 

Steve takes a mild sip of his orange juice. 

“This is--” Bucky starts, then stops. “Sam hates this.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, like he’s talking to a petulant child. “Sam loves waffles.”

“Stop being a little shit. You need to give him a pep talk, or something.” Bucky waves his hand around vaguely, unsure what gesture encapsulates ‘life-changingly patriotic motivation’. “Inspire him. Because you left him, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes soften, and Bucky is spurred on by the sudden remorse. Feel bad, he thinks, suddenly petty. Feel a little miserable, like Sam does sometimes.

“Yeah, you left him. And he’s never, ever going to blame you for that, because he’s the least selfish person on the planet and he knows how much you’ve sacrificed. But you know what? That’s fine. I’ll do it for him.”

Bucky, who’d been directing the majority of the speech just to the left of Steve’s head, looks back at him now. Steve’s eyes are soft but his expression is otherwise infuriatingly placid.

“You need to-- make it up to him somehow,” Bucky instructs, and his cheeks are burning, but he’s gotten this far so he’s not going to stop now. “Do some sort of… Captain America Team Building retreat. Because he’s hurt, and I don’t know how to fix it. I hate seeing him like this.”

There’s a small silence. Bucky wonders how long they have left before Sam comes back from the bathroom. 

“Wow,” Steve says, and suddenly he’s smiling a little bit, even as sadness takes shape around his eyes. “That’s the most I’ve heard you talk at once since we got you back.”

“This is important.”

“I know,” Steve’s voice gentles and he nods once, dutiful. “I didn’t realize. I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, for telling me.”

There’s a pause and Bucky can feel Steve’s playfulness building back up in the air between them. He wants to preemptively chuck a napkin at Steve’s head.

“The least selfish person on the face of the planet, huh?”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s been, what -- three months? Three and a half?” Steve asks, and he’s definitely smiling now, the ancient shit. “Last time I saw you this gone on someone this fast, I think we were fifteen and it was Lacey Cavatappi from science class. What was that poem you wrote her?”

“Steve.”

“No, no, it was really good -- I think you rhymed ‘heart eyes’ with ‘Gregor Mendel’s flies’.” 

“Steve,” Bucky repeats, perhaps a little more urgently as he sees Sam winding his way through the tables.

Steve falls silent, and when he looks back at Sam it’s with considerably more care. They’re probably going to go off together later, have one of those talks about how much they love each other by the sunset. Bucky’s cheeks are still burning, but he thinks _good. About time._

Sam sits down and looks speculatively between the two of them. “Weird energy,” he says carefully.

“Sam,” Steve starts, “how do you feel about poetry?

Bucky wonders if it’s actually that unethical, comparatively, with everything else he’s done, to punch a nonagenarian.

* * *

Every year Sam’s family has a Memorial Day Barbecue. They have a fourth of July barbecue, too, but Sam stopped going to that after coming back from Afghanistan, on account of the fireworks being a little too much noise both indoors and out. 

This, of course, only makes his attendance at the Memorial Day festivities all the more urgent. Three of his family members send invites by mail to the apartment. His mom makes a point of asking about his “new roommate” on hers.

“Oh Jesus,” Sam says, looking at the star-spangled invitation and rubbing the side of his face. They’re sitting out on the terrace, drinking Chik-Fil-A lemonade and decompressing from an intense 48 hours in Austria. 

“What?” Bucky asks, tilting his head in curiosity. Sam looks chagrined all of a sudden, the sun-slack lines of his face suddenly tightening with unease. 

“She thinks we’re dating,” he explains, tossing the invitation onto the side-table next to the planter. “That’s her bit. She’ll say ‘roommate’ instead of friend if she thinks it’s romantic. Used to call Riley my roommate, before we came out and told her.”

“Right.” Riley. Sam’s partner and Sam’s _partner_. “What’d she think Steve was?”

“Friend.”

“Really?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, why?”

Bucky wets his lips, suddenly feeling as if he’s veered into choppy waters. “Just-- you know, what makes me different?”

Sam has sunglasses on, so Bucky can’t see what happens in his eyes. Sam lays it all out in his eyes, never learned how to hide it the way Bucky did. 

“No sense in trying to understand that woman,” Sam shakes his head. “You definitely have to come to the barbecue, though.”

Bucky stiffens. “What?”

“Oh, yeah. If I leave you at home it’ll just look even more suspicious.” Sam pauses, sipping noisily at the last dregs of his lemonade and appraising Bucky quietly. “What’s that face you’re making?” he asks, pointing his paper cup in a vaguely accusatory manner.

“No face,” Bucky returns, shifting his gaze to the Manhattan skyline. It’s smoky and humid this time of day, heat captured in an orange-pinkish haze. “I just should’ve figured you’re the kind of weirdo who brings the Winter Soldier home to meet your parents.”

Sam laughs, a quiet, tired sound. Bucky very carefully does not look at him, does not give Sam yet another chance to take his breath away. 

“Don’t be nervous. They’ll love you.”

Bucky makes a non-committal harrumphing sound. 

* * *

They do love him. 

The second Bucky steps through the door, a girl who barely comes up to Bucky’s chest grabs his hand and drags him through the living room. She tells him, in a low, conspiratorial voice, that her name is Aaliyah and she only has two Barbies and neither of them have hair like Bucky’s. 

“Mom does not buy white dolls,” she explains, making Bucky sit in front of the couch. She climbs up on the sofa behind him and pats his head twice. “Because of feminism. But if I learn how to waterfall braid, I can charge people five bucks to do it at lunch.”

“Is that allowed?” Bucky asks.

“Probably not,” Aalyiah says cheerfully. “But making the principal mad is really funny. He gets all red.”

So Sam’s thing with authority is genetic, then. 

Bucky, eternally grateful that he doesn’t have to approximate normal conversation with functional adults, leans back peaceably against the sofa. Aaliyah hands him a magazine, and tells him to read aloud the advice columns on makeup and boyfriends. 

“You could have a lot more volume,” Aaliyah says thoughtfully, pulling a plastic pink brush through his hair. “What conditioner do you use?”

Bucky shrugs. “Whatever Sam uses.”

“Oh my _god_. That’s really bad! You guys have totally different hair types!”

She talks at length, then, about all the skin and hair care things Bucky should be doing differently. She’s very knowledgeable, and tells Bucky she wants to go to beauty school, but probably won’t because she’s the top in her class at both math and science. 

“You wanna be a doctor?”

“Maybe. Sick people kind of gross me out, though.”

“That’s fair.”

At some point -- when half of Bucky’s hair is tied up in bands and bobby pins -- one of Sam’s sisters places a toddler in his arms. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, and she has a glimmer in her eye, one that looks eerily like Sam’s when he’s Up To Something. 

Babies are cute, though, and this one has already wrapped her fat little arms around Bucky’s neck, so he’s gone in any case. 

“Not if you don’t,” he says carefully, glancing behind her. 

Sam is leaned up against the doorframe, watching Bucky, Aaliyah, and Mimi (the little one) with a slightly pained expression. He’s wearing a short-sleeved white button-down that’s tight around his arms and chest, perhaps specifically designed to mess with Bucky’s blood pressure.

“We’re eating in a half hour,” Sam says, mouth tipped in a crooked smile. 

Bucky nods, and a chunk of hair flops over one of his eyes, “Cool.”

His sister is making smug faces at Sam as they both head back into the kitchen. 

“What was that about?” he asks Aaliyah. Mimi takes hold of his nose and squeezes, giggles in that funny way toddlers do, then squeezes again. 

“Grown ups are weird,” Aaliyah says, shrugging as she fastens a butterfly clip to the top of his head. “If you flip to the back of the Tiger Beat, there’s a quiz on whether you’re a ‘Summer’ or a ‘Fall’.”

Bucky dutifully seeks it out. 

* * *

Sam catches a cold while they’re on assignment in the Scottish highlands, casing for HYDRA bases tucked between mountains of green and frost-covered stonecroppings. They’re stranded in a tiny safehouse with busted heating and exactly four cough drops. It takes Sam exactly one hour to blow through that entire supply.

“You need to call in sick,” Bucky places a palm on Sam’s forehead. 

“No way,” Sam sniffles. “I’m Cabtin America.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “They’ll tap Sharon. She looks better in the suit anyways.”

“Liar.”

Bucky is absolutely lying, but that’s on the list of things Sam’s not allowed to know. Feels like he’s adding something new to it every single day.

“I’m calling it, Captain,” he says, digging around his back pocket for the cellphone. 

“Bucky, I’m fine! It’s a _cold._ ”

“You sneeze every twelve seconds,” Bucky deadpans, leveling an unimpressed stare at the wheezing mass of blankets out of which Sam’s venomous stare is currently peering. “There’s no way you can pull off a stealth mission right now.”

“I desbise you.”

“I’ll get over it.”

Sam sticks his tongue out, then reaches for a tissue and blows his nose so loudly and disgustingly that it makes Bucky physically wince. Yeah, forcing him to step back is definitely the right call, even if it means Sam’s most likely course of retaliation will be putting a ton of laxatives in his protein shake tomorrow. (IThis is a threat he has made before and will almost certainly make again). 

“You hungry?” Bucky asks, scrolling through dining options on his phone.

“Fuck you.”

“I’m gonna make soup. How’s chicken noodle sound?”

Sam tugs the blankets higher up over his shoulders and looks moodily out the window. He’s… _pouting_. Even if Bucky’s intent on ignoring it, it’s still pretty cute. 

The fridge is fully-stocked as far as ingredients go, so Bucky rolls up his sleeves and sets to work in the kitchen right away. He likes cooking for Sam -- has gotten leagues better at it in the past few months, thanks to both internet recipe videos and an impressively long email chain with one Darlene Wilson.

He’s always known how to make soup, though. Especially if it’s for chronically stubborn and physically ill national icons whose names start with ‘S’. 

It’s not long before he’s presenting a still-steaming bowl to Sam and taking a seat next to him on the couch (a good arm-swinging length away, just in case). He has to goad Sam into taking the first couple of spoonfuls; it helps that his stomach is grumbling audibly.

When he’s halfway through his second bowl, Bucky guesses it’s safe to make contact.

“How are you feeling?”

Sam shoots him an unreadable look over the lip of his soup bowl. “Better,” he admits. “Nose isn’t so stuffed up.”

“Hot soup will do that.”

“Are you expecting a thank you?”

“Wilson,” Bucky starts, mouth curving in a crooked smile. “The pleasure of your company is thanks enough.”

“I hate you,” Sam says, but he’s smiling. 

They fall into easy conversation -- talking about past missions (how much they hate nazis), reality TV (Bucky tried watching The Bachelor for small talk purposes), and work gossip (Sam knows _all_ of it, Bucky can barely put a face to most of the names). Bucky refills Sam’s soup bowl one more time and moves closer to him on the couch when he sits back down.

There’s a gap in the conversation. Bucky thinks Sam’s gonna doze off soon. Sam can sleep anywhere - Bucky’s never seen someone with their background have such trust in their environment. In any case, the silence is comfortable. 

Bucky turns to Sam to tell him he ought to get some rest, but he’s cut off.

“Steve kissed me once.”

_Oh._

Jealousy curls in the pit of Bucky’s stomach, though he knows he shouldn’t be all that surprised. The first time he met Sam -- really met him, when Bucky was more human than PTSD wastoid -- all he could think about was how alike he and Peggy were. 

He doesn’t have to say anything, just watches Sam’s profile and waits for him to continue. They’re getting better and better at that. Reading each other. 

“I don’t know if there was anything there, really,” Sam shrugs, leaning back against the couch. His voice is soft and contemplative, unguarded in a way he rarely ever is for anyone else. Something off-beat and uneven clunks around in Bucky’s chest. “Timing wasn’t right. I guess there was _always_ something -- not right, about the two of us.” 

“Hm,” is the only coherent response Bucky can conjure. 

He feels something in the air between them shift. Sam is… looking at him now. With intent. His voice is very pointed when he says, “He never told me what he wanted.”

“Right.”

“He waited too long.”

“Makes sense.”

“I don’t have forever.” A brief, calculated pause. “I am not, in fact, a slow-aging supersoldier.”

Bucky’s throat is suddenly very dry. He looks at Sam for a moment that drags on longer than it has any right to.

Sam breaks first -- turning his gaze briefly at the ceiling like he’s appealing to some higher power, then standing up on slightly wobbly legs, pulling his cloak of blankets tight around his shoulders. “Okay, well, I’m going to bed,” he says, without looking at Bucky. “Night.”

It’s a long time of Bucky sitting there, staring at his legs like an idiot, before eventually following suit.

* * *

When it finally happens, there’s no wind-up, no tragedy that breaks a dam of emotion, no cathartic moment of breathless confession-- 

(It’s possible Bucky has been reading too many Harlequin romance novels. In his defense, they’re the cheapest paperbacks at the used bookstore on their street.)

They’re doing dishes in the kitchen -- Bucky washing, Sam drying. Sam is wearing Bucky’s shirt and laughing at this story about Bucky losing all his clothes in a game of strip poker with the Commandos and having to sleep stark naked in the woods in the middle of summer. He had gotten no less than six mosquito bites on his butt alone, one of which was literally up his ass crack. 

“That’s disgusting,” Sam wheezes.

“We were disgusting! I swear, I’m this close to decking the next person to invite me to one of those stupid fucking World War II nostalgia benefits.”

“You should tell them this story.”

“Better yet, I’ll train a mosquito to fly into and bite their asscrack.”

Sam’s eyes are squeezed shut, he’s pressing the back of his hand over his mouth, the soft apples of his cheeks lifted in a smile -- he is the most beautiful man Bucky has ever seen.

 _Damn_ , he thinks.

Bucky has a stray thought about how Sam’s laugh makes him feel warm all over, spreading from the center of his chest to the tips of his fingers. 

_Well_ , he resolves. 

“What’s wrong with your face?” Sam asks mildly, still exhaling quiet snickers as he reaches for another dish.

Bucky intercepts him, fingers curling lightly around Sam’s wrist. He crowds up close, puts his hand on Sam’s hip, and pushes him against the counter.

“Oh?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I don’t wanna mess this up,” Bucky says plaintively. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Sam’s eyes soften. “You won’t,” he says, wrapping a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, thumb resting on the edge of his jaw.

“I think,” Bucky halts and tries to pull his thoughts together, a feat that’s pretty damn difficult with Sam this close. “I think — I need you in my life.” He hesitates. “I think you need me, too.”

“I do,” Sam says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky kisses him. 

It’s been quite a while since he’s done this, but that doesn’t matter, really. He loses all sense of anything the second their lips touch, his mind going perfectly blank and his arms tightening around Sam’s waist. He feels dizzy, off-center, like he’s been cut loose and set adrift and there’s nothing ahead but endless possibility. 

Sam’s flushed completely red when Bucky pulls back — all kiss-bitten lips and big, bright brown eyes.

“About fucking time.”

“Shut up,” Bucky grouses

“Make me.”

He’s all too happy to oblige.

* * *

Bucky jolts awake to the feeling of something cold and wet against the back of his neck.

“Fuck— Motherfucker,” he startles, scrambling onto his knees, sheets pooling around his waist. He rubs at his eyes with one hand and “What is wrong with you, Wilson?”

“You’re heavy and you’re basically a furnace,” Sam says, idly twisting the cap off a water bottle and taking a swallow. Bucky figures it’s what Sam woke him up with. “I was suffocating.”

“And you couldn’t think of a nicer way to move me?” Bucky growls, blinking several times as his vision starts to clear, the blurry edges of Sam coming into focus. He launches forward, ignoring Sam’s light yelp as Bucky pushes him back against the bed, legs settling around his waist, hands braced against his biceps. Sam’s protests turn into laughter as Bucky rubs his stubbly cheek against Sam’s in retaliation, squirming underneath Bucky and trying to tuck his face into the sheets. 

“You need to shave,” Sam says, breathless as he places a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, dry, calloused fingers curling around him.

“Thought you said you liked the way it felt on your thighs.”

“Well, now I’m saying you need to shave. Or get some beard oil.”

“The hell is beard oil?”

“You’d know if you stopped falling asleep every time I try to bring culture into our lives,” Sam’s eyes are full of faux-reprimand, but his wandering hands give him away, moving soothingly down the line of Bucky’s spine and rubbing small, tight circles into his lower back. Bucky stares at him, sure that adoration is latent on his face. Sam’s too beautiful like this, not fully awake, not fully aware of himself and whatever expectations await him outside their bedroom. The little worry lines on his forehead are notably absent and he’s loose with his affection, with his body. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Sam chides, but he’s grinning, very gently and subtly pushing his hips into Bucky’s like the fucking tease he is. 

“Like what?” Bucky plays along, raising an eyebrow. 

“Like you’re in love with me,” Sam taunts.

“Well,” Bucky leans down to kiss him, quick and hard, nipping at Sam’s lower lip. “Maybe I am, Wilson. Ever think about that?”

Sam looks startled for a moment, eyes widening in a way Bucky finds painfully adorable. They’ve never really said that before, not in a way that felt serious, but Bucky’s loved Sam for… months. Years, maybe. It somehow feels safe to admit it here, in the comfort of their bed, which is warm and familiar and completely untethered from the rest of the world’s bullshit.

“Fuck you,” Sam says, expression twitching into an incredulous little smile. “You being serious right now?”

“Your mom sure wasn’t kiddin’ when she said you were a romantic, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Sam says again, then pulls Bucky down for another kiss, the movement of his hips considerably less subtle. 

His legs curl around Bucky’s waist, fingers digging into Bucky’s shoulders in a signal that he’s started getting impatient, getting to that point where his body gets jerky and uncontrolled in a way that makes Bucky crazy. 

And then — just as Sam has started whispering things that send desire coiling tight and overwhelming in Bucky’s stomach — the Captain America phone rings.

Just like that, Sam’s rolling them over, pressing a staying hand on Bucky’s chest as he leans over the side of the bed and gropes around for the source of the sound. 

Bucky drops his head against the pillow and tries to think about really, really unappealing things. Vomiting on Steve at Coney Island. The whole concept of reality television. The various, grisly assassinations he’s committed. He figures it would be working a lot better if Sam didn’t still have a leg wedged between his thighs. 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, I can be there in a half-hour…. —Well, Agent, until SHIELD installs a helipad on the roof of my apartment building, the Subway will have to do. ….uh-huh. Yeah. I’ll see you then.”

Sam ends the call and places his phone on the bedside table, rolling off of Bucky and out of bed in one, smooth motion. 

“Suit up. Nazis in Edinburgh,” Sam says, not looking remotely apologetic as he disappears into their shared bathroom. He’s all business, now, expression somber and patriotic in a way that is, unfortunately, not dampening enough to make Bucky’s boner wilt completely.

With great difficulty, Bucky extricates himself from the warm tangle of sheets and follows Sam into the bathroom. He tries to tease him a couple times — grabs at his ass, kisses his neck from behind — and gets half a smile and an elbow to the ribs for his troubles.

“You ever been to Edinburgh?” Bucky asks. He’s hunched over the sink, drying his with a hand towel.

“No.”

“It’s nice. Lots of sightseeing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam asks, throwing Bucky an amused glance over one bare shoulder. “You gonna take me on a romantic moonlight stroll through the Stirling?”

“Yeah, maybe I am.” Bucky has mostly been picturing a romantic moonlight stroll through a 24-hour Chippy, but whatever. He’s flexible.

Sam keeps talking as they get dressed, rambling idly about safe houses and the do’s and dont’s of ethical tourism and Maria’s stupid intern. Bucky’s happy to listen — it never feels like the day’s really started until Sam has gone on an impassioned rant about one of the world’s injustices.

They’re lingering in the kitchen and Bucky’s attempting to force Sam to eat at _least_ a banana before they head out, when Bucky catches him staring.

“What?” he asks, then chews and swallows a mouthful of toast. “Do I have peanut butter on my face?”

Sam studies him for a moment, brown eyes bright and imploring. Something in his expression shifts. He chews a little on his bottom lip. “You really mean what you said? Earlier?”

Bucky smiles and pulls Sam into his space, kisses him again. “Yeah,” he says against Sam’s lips, moving his thumb across Sam’s jaw, “I love you.”

Sam puts his hand on Bucky’s wrist, squeezing once, light and reassuring. “You asshole,” his eyes blink closed for a second, and Bucky knows he’s composing himself, stuffing the excess feeling back into his chest and trying his best to stop it up completely. Sam’s like Steve — he feels everything too much. It’s what makes him perfect for this job, but Bucky also knows it’s what makes this job the hardest thing Sam’s ever had to do.

He pulls away from Bucky, resolve settling tight onto his expression. “You ready?” he asks, strapping the shield to his back. 

Bucky knocks his shoulder against Sam’s, “Let’s do this.”

**Author's Note:**

> @quidhitch on tumblr plz b my friend we can hang out on zoom


End file.
